


The Wrong Story

by metisket



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Gen, gil frowns on arson as therapy, mochizuki jun that holy knight thing was just cruel, oz is a lot of work to care for, post-60, rubbing salt into the wound, watch out she bites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metisket/pseuds/metisket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oz’s reaction to chapter 60.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Hell is this: bloodstained hands and an endless string of sunny days.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wrong Story

**Author's Note:**

> First posted April 2011. Spoilers/accurate through Ch. 60.

The more he thinks about it, the more Oz wonders where Isla Yura ever came across a reference to the Abyss as a paradise. It seems strange that there could be a legend so different from the one Oz grew up with.

_If you’re bad, I’ll call the Messengers of the Abyss!_

It was what little kids were threatened with, like the messengers were boogeymen and the Abyss was a hell for unwanted children. Surprisingly accurate. After all, it happened to Oz just the way they said.

But then again, no, they were wrong. The Abyss was no kind of hell. It was dangerous, eerie, and bizarre, but it wasn’t a terrible place.

Hell is this: bloodstained hands and an endless string of sunny days.

“If you don’t eat,” Alice says, “you’ll shrivel up like a moldy tomato.”

That, Oz thinks, is unlikely. He saw people starving in the wreckage of Sablier, and they weren’t shriveled. Stripped down, more. Bright, burning eyes in sunken, dirty faces. There was nothing left in those people but hunger and the will to live. That won’t happen to Oz. He doesn’t have that much will to live. “Don’t worry, Alice.”

“Who said I was worried!?”

Oz lets it go. Oz is letting everything go right now. Maybe it’s best that way and maybe it isn’t, but it doesn’t really matter, since he can’t talk himself into doing anything else. Trying just makes him tired.

He wonders if Elliot was tired, at the end. When he realized how things were. Oz would have been, but Oz is always tired, and Elliot isn’t that way.

Wasn’t. That way.

If he wasn’t tired, was he angry? Sad? Afraid? He must have been afraid. Oz remembers him afraid in Sablier, remembers how his eyes went wide, surprised by his own fear. And then anger, anger to cover it, anger to cover everything. Not like Oz. Oz is like Edgar; he isn’t afraid to die. That’s what Elliot hated most about them both. Elliot loved life. But now he’s dead and Oz is alive, and the irony is enough to make anyone want to destroy the world.

Edgar dies, Edwin lives, everyone knows that. That’s how the story is supposed to go; that’s how it _has_ to go. The proper, classic pattern. This is all wrong.

The world doesn’t care. It’s gorgeous today anyway, bright green and blue and golden, flowers blooming, birds singing, clear streams babbling over rocks. The world hasn’t even noticed.

“Oz. What are you thinking?”

“I guess…I’m thinking about the Abyss.”

“That’s stupid. Stop.”

“Mm.”

It’s lucky Alice can’t read minds, because Oz is ignoring her. It’s just that, at this point, he can see some merit in the idea of tossing whole cities into the Abyss. The problem is, the Abyss isn’t enough. The Abyss is still a place; it’s not even an especially bad place. If you want to destroy something, you should _destroy it_.

Isla Yura’s vision lacked scope. Not that it matters anymore. Oz killed him, and that door is shut. Well, Jack killed him, technically…though he did it with Oz’s hands. So Oz killed him. Jack killed him. Oz killed him.

At what point does it stop mattering? Did it ever?

And whether Oz is physically guilty or not, he’s guilty in spirit. As far as he’s concerned, Isla Yura’s death is the one bright spot in this disaster. Oz is, deep down, happy to have seen the man’s corpse, because he’s a terrible, vindictive person. He’s a terrible person, and yet Elliot’s the one who’s dead, lying broken in a puddle of blood, eyes open and staring and drying as Oz watched and Leo screamed screamed screamed.

Everything about this is backwards.

“Oz, I’m hungry.”

“…You should eat something.”

“I’ll eat something when you do.”

“I’m not hungry. You should eat if you are.”

“You should eat whether you’re hungry or not because you haven’t eaten all day, you _idiot_.”

“In a little while, maybe.”

“Idiot.”

Oz would bet that Leo isn’t eating any more than he is. Eyes closed, ears closed, shutting out the world for good. Oz wonders if Leo will survive this. He wonders if he would, if Alice and Gil had died, if he had been in any way responsible.

No. He wouldn’t survive. And he doesn’t think Leo will, either.

He knows he should visit Leo, but he can’t make himself want to. Not yet. They only had one thing in common, after all, and he’s dead. Oz can’t handle the idea of facing his own pain multiplied a thousandfold.

_I think I could kill anyone who was Elliot’s enemy_ , Leo told him. _And if…_ I’m _the one hurting him, please don’t let me. Save Elliot. And as for me…kill me_.

But it was already too late by then.

Leo may blame Oz, in part, for not being able to stop it. If Oz blames himself, why shouldn’t Leo? Maybe he’ll try to kill Oz in revenge. Maybe Oz will let him.

Oz presses his fingernails hard into one of Alice’s bloody bite marks and grits his teeth against a scream. _Stop thinking like that. Alice would be angry, Gil would be sad. Stop it, stop it, stop it, selfish little brat_.

Elliot would yell if he knew about this. But then, Elliot is dead. Does that make his advice on how to live less valid?

Elliot was undeniably right about one thing, though: Oz is a coward. He would rather die than watch a friend die. He would rather put his loved ones through this pain than suffer it himself. It’s pathetic and it’s despicable, but that doesn’t make it less true. Oz would give a lot to trade places with Elliot.

“Oz?”

“Hm?”

“You should stop looking out the window. It’s making you weird.”

“…I was always weird.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t this creepy before.”

“Oh. Sorry, Alice.”

Alice abruptly pulls away from him and runs out of the room. Maybe he’s made her mad; it is pretty easy to do. She’ll be back, though. She’s always quick to forget her anger, which must be nice. Oz never forgets, though God knows he tries.

He’s sorry she’s gone. It was good to have her there, warm against his back. He wishes she would stop asking him questions, though. It’s hard work answering, like having a conversation across a crowded street. He can hardly make out what she’s saying, and he’s not sure she can hear him at all. Easier not to try.

Oz stares outside and tries to think of nothing, but a tree branch taps against the window, grabbing his attention. Soft green leaves dancing cheerfully in the breeze, sunlight dappling through them. Oz would love to burn that tree to ash and scatter it over Elliot’s grave.

…There’s a fire in the fireplace behind him. He thinks it might not be the best idea to leave him alone in a room with fire right now.

“Oz. What are you looking at?”

Ah. Alice went to get reinforcements. Gil has arrived with a platter of what may be every kind of food Oz has ever liked in his life, and Alice is beside him, feet apart, arms folded, chin jutting stubbornly out.

Gil looks tired. Gil looks tired and sad and sick, and no wonder. One little brother just died, the other disappeared, and Oz is acting insane. This isn’t fair on Gil. It isn’t fair at all. “Just the trees,” Oz says.

Gil looks out the window too, trying to see what Oz sees. His eyes quickly drift out of focus, though, because apparently he really is _that_ tired. Oz is worried about him, but the worry is far away, hidden behind a wall of water, echoes, silence. He can’t reach it; he’s afraid to try. He doesn’t know what else he might find there.

“Gil,” he says, “you should sleep.”

Gil’s attention jerks away from the window, and he scowls. “ _You_ should sleep. And you should eat.” He casts fretful eyes over Oz, doubtless taking in all kinds of incriminating details. “Hang on…are those _bite marks?_ ”

Oz shrugs. Gil sets the food on a side table and whirls on Alice, pointing accusingly. “You _bit_ him?”

“I was trying to snap him out of it.”

“You _drew blood_.”

“Well, it wasn’t working.”

“Of course it wasn’t working, stupid rabbit!”

“Like _you_ have any better ideas!”

“I brought food!”

“But he’s not eating it. Look at him, he’s just sitting there like a zombie.”

They frown at Oz. He blinks back and wonders if it was zombie-like. Maybe so, because they resume fighting; spit and fire, brooding and worry.

Oz knows that all he needs to do is stand between them, and they’ll catch him. They’ll hold him steady, pull him out of this place. It’ll hurt, but it’ll be worth it. He’ll be able to breathe. His entire life is standing right in front of him, and he can’t work up the energy to reach it. Alice is right. He is an idiot.

He turns away.

It’s evening now, he sees, and the sun is lighting up a few high clouds as it sets. There’s a warm breeze drifting in through an open window.

It looks like tomorrow will be another beautiful day.


End file.
